In the earliest days of my shoplifting career, You could safely say I was filled with fear. It was nail biting work from the very start, But several quick successes soon gave me heart. After a while I could pick or nick or steal, Some shirts some trousers and a few LPs. No-one ever stopped me, they didn't seem to care. It sometimes seemed to me that there was no-one there.
Then a fine summers day my mates and me, Set off down the westend on our usual spree. Things were as normal for an hour or so, Then my nimble hands were a bit too slow. Two store detectives made a fast approach, One grabbed my jacket (you're nicked!) The other grabbed my throat. So they caught me at last, one said with joy: "You'll have to do some time, my light fingered boy!"
If only I'd remembered my common sense, They captured me red-handed with evidence. If I go to the manager and say I'm sorry, Maybe he'll forgive me for my youthful folly.
But what will me social worker say, If I don't come home today? He'll give me a clout! What if they don't let me out? I told him I'm on me own! Don't they understand? I'm from a broken home!
I'll tell them I'm the product of a broken home, And I always went out on my own. Was it too late to say I'd pay, And I'll never steal again 'till the end of my days? Because I have no friends to call as such, Money and posessions I did not have much, So I started to steal in order to get by. The quickness of the hand deceives the eye. deceives the eye the eye the eye...